


for my last girl, for my first boy (this is edwina)

by enlaurement24



Series: any way you want me, i'll be yours [2]
Category: Twosetviolin
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, for all your edwina needs, no she's not a kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:07:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24223273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enlaurement24/pseuds/enlaurement24
Summary: Her determination breeds recklessness. Her anger is a burning, crushing thing that licks at my fingertips, that gives way at my touch. It's the glint of teeth, the straightening of a spine, the cutting of honey words. I fear one day she'll snap her bow over her sharp knee in a fit. I wish she'd pushed me harder, sooner, we'd have more time.(A declaration of love, if that was ever needed, from Brett to any form Eddy takes. Aftermath ofraspberry glue for the cracks in your soul.)
Relationships: Eddy Chen/Brett Yang
Series: any way you want me, i'll be yours [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1748395
Comments: 23
Kudos: 87





	for my last girl, for my first boy (this is edwina)

**Author's Note:**

> loosely linked to [raspberry glue](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23649289).

24th of March, 4:50 in the evening, Cordelia & Gleneg Street, South Brisbane. Maths tutoring. 

There he was, warm to my left side, the shortest I ever remember him being. I spoke to him first and he responded, his round edges cutting into me, displacing me from my body, crawling inside with _something_ cradled between his palms, held away in the chambers of his heart. I didn't know then, that I didn't belong to me anymore, blinded by his light, by brown and mellow and the angle at which his mouth opened when he'd laughed at my dumb jokes. 

Pretty face, pretty eyelashes closing in an ocean of chocolate, pretty fingers, bitten, ghosting over a girl's mouth. Inside, teeth, seen for the first time. 

Blinded by her unmade hands over my eyes, in my hair, everywhere, underneath my skin and pressing into the bones of my face. Not yet born.

* * *

This is Edwina.

The morning light bends around her edges, around her eyelashes, it makes her shine bronze, a second sun. 

Her front door is stronger than my will with how it withstands being ripped open and banged on the wall, over and over again. It's how she always lets me in. The air tingles with electricity on the days it rains, it makes her hair frizzy. It pinches at our skin when her bigger hand connects with my forearm to drag me inside. 

It doesn't always look like her, but I know anyway, the sunrise glints off her half opened eyes as she tucks her chin into her raised shoulder kittenish, unintentionally attractive. She allows me this, pure essence of her, stripped of synthetic hair or mascara or see-through clothes.

I love knowing, watching her chapped mouth form words differently than Eddy would, and knowing it's her.

She likes playing coy and she likes pushing me down, because I let her. 

'Brett, hey, would you want me to say please?' 

It's backwards, the coffee brings her down more than anything, grounds her enough that she makes time to look at me. She loathes waiting out the water to boil, so I have to do it, head full of starry cotton candy when I catch flashes of her hair, of white skin as she's getting dressed, of wiggly ugly toes when she squeezes into jeans. 

'Do my hair Brett, come on, you caught on better when Belle showed us how.'

I love her stupid little actions. Bruises on her knees, up her thighs, from knocking into furniture. She won't admit it but she's bit into rosin at least once. She buys me things I don't need. 

I love her determination. In every which way. 'Let me give you pigtails, Brett, let me, let me, _let me_.' Her savoury cookies, bread burnt on the outside and raw in the middle, dick-shaped buns for no reason. It took her years to give up cooking. I ate everything then as well, I'll eat her baking now too. 

My eyes fill up uselessly when I put her first sweet cupcake in my mouth, it's relief and regret at the same time, and pride, and happiness. Consuming. 

I find her in the night sometimes, hacking away at technique. She's only half put together, Eddy there for memories from before she was born. She yearns for familiarity, for Debussy and Sibelius, but I have to listen to her practice Prokofiev. Ysaÿe, once she gets angry enough. It's all of what I love. 

Her determination breeds recklessness. Her anger is a burning, crushing thing that licks at my fingertips, that gives way at my touch. It's the glint of teeth, the straightening of a spine, the cutting of honey words. I fear one day she'll snap her bow over her sharp knee in a fit. I wish she'd pushed me harder, sooner, we'd have more time. 

It's enough as it is. She's mellowed out since I came to her, to Eddy, willingly, laid there on the floor to kill the distance we've kept out of innocent love. 

I love her crooked teeth. And the way she brushes them. And the way they bite down on rosin or food or my skin. 

And the way they feel against my tongue, the uneven underside of them. 

On the Tuesdays that she's there, she pretends to try out new things. She asks for my guitar and she plays like she wouldn't know how to, all her songs that I can't guess the name of. She sings, she sings terribly, unashamed and overbearing, it's k-pop mostly and rap that she actually tries for, some older songs that I've heard from the radio in the kitchen when I was younger. The lyrics don't match, it's just words that are ours, words she thinks funny. 

Lingling. Bee. Sacrilegious. Dick. Nipple. 

She hates doing things alone, even on off days, so when she puts my guitar down it's only to pick up the pouch of mismatched make-up. She's learned, as always, how it all works. It means nothing, because she revels in my confusion as I try applying it correctly. The eyeliner thing though, I'm getting better. It's the hardest to do and it takes so long and yet, it feels like the start of Mendelssohn when I nail it. 

The last thing she plays before she takes it all off is always the same, hasn't changed since before we've changed. She only hums it, refuses to tell me what it is, same dumb repeated chords. 

(Later, Eddy says something cryptic, completely at random, _walk on the wild side,hey?_ , and I forget as soon as the words are out.) 

Charades is an old love, used to the ground. She still changes into random clothes, random wigs, to make me guess which anime character she's acting out. She realises this combo is easier, that I'm better at guessing by the look in her eyes, and she dolls me up for the reverse. 

'Do you like my face better this way?' 

'I'd like you without a face and a mouth to annoy me with.' She looks down at me, at her fingers smudging lipstick and says 'On second thought, I'd keep that mouth.'

'I like everything of yours. I don't pick favourites.' 

She scrunches her nose up. She scrunches her nose up all the time, when she laughs, before she kisses, after I wake up to find her coloring in my nails red. 

'And my teeth? My skin? My mismatched eyelids?' 

'Everything. God, everything.' 

She can never decide which drink she wants, but I already know that she will always choose bubble tea. Everywhere we go, and if it's not on the menu she'll complain endlessly, until she's satisfied. It's for my sake as well. 

I'll never admit it. Hearing the violent pop as she stabs at the cup, I take off my glasses so I won't see her mouth close around the straw. She knows, just like with how she's taken to handling me bodily to where she wants me, she knows and she makes it worse. The noises that come out of her throat. Every time she looks at me, and says 'What?', as if her ankle isn't pushing up my calf under the table, in public. 

She eats messy, and not, at the same time. Her bites are too big, her cheeks stretch, it takes a few seconds of chewing to bring her mouth back to comfortable dimensions. She makes a face when she notices she's eaten her lipstick as well. 

She practices. She practices religiously, even if it's not her place, something fierce bleeding over in her string crossings. She counts her own hours, separate from Eddy, as if it's more than one person that I see. She practices at night, secretly. I find her in the morning with the wig wonky, tilted, clips open, and I wonder if it's her anymore, in her sleep. She practices away from her violin too, on my forearm, when I'm busy and not looking only at her, because she's not without insecurities. It makes me self conscious, that she'd want this, a leftover of when he's naked and so beautiful that I feel like I carry _unworthy_ on my chest. 

On Eddy's laptop, there is a folder, with two other ones inside, for the music they compose. Neither shows me. I beg, and I see one starting to crack just to be shut down a second later by the other. The games he's playing. 

She won't say sorry when we fight. It's not for her to apologise. 

She demands that she's pet and held, all the time. Shamelessly, like she'll never back down, like she'll never make space when she's not needed anymore. I've never needed her. 

I love her, it's not hard.

It's not hard, but it messes with my head when he's so frantic that he pushes me down on my back without taking the wig off.

Eddy looks funny when he's turned on and it's too hard to concentrate on anything else. He's everywhere, reaching right underneath my skin, going through flesh like it's nothing, like he's taking what's his. 

He does this thing, always the same, no matter if he's fucking me to an inch of my life or if he's on his hands and knees. His fingers are bruising shapes over my left hip and all I want is to trash against him until there's no choice left but to hold me down properly. Too much, not enough, let me go, _keep me, keep me, keep me_ , it overflows between us and he has to come down over my stomach, to bite there the way I need.

The power in having him bend like that. My hands shake and it takes a while to get all the clips off, he goes easy, rocks into me slower, shallow, lets me breathe through it.

It's stupid, he's stupid, his hair is wet when I pull the wig free, but god. I could cry, with how his lips feel on the side of my face, fever hot, with how he blocks out everything, the fading light outside, the yellow of that long hair.

He sleeps like a log, takes double his size on the bed, he drools on me, he talks sometimes and I fear he's gonna tell me what pitch his dreams are. I have to cover him over and over again, overgrown, heavy octopus baby.

He kisses me all the time.

He's genuinely impressed by my left hand pizz.

He doesn't tease more than I can take, doesn't go crying when I step too far.

He watches me sleep as a hobby.

_Minemineminemine._

He is Edwina. 

This is Eddy.

_I love you._

**Author's Note:**

> hi, i'll be gone until mid july because uni&exams! but here, this was my offering until then. also, if it wasn't clear, eddy isn't the only one simping for edwina. ;)
> 
> i didn't mean it to fit in like this, but what do i know, it seems like it's gonna be a trilogy thingy now. all the pronouns are meant to be the way i put them there, if you're wondering.
> 
> brett's guitar is an actual thing, i keep seeing it in his tiktoks.


End file.
